Never Too Old To Learn
by Keesha
Summary: This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March's challenge, themed "Idle Hands". What do our boys get up to during their downtime?
Author's Notes:

This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March's challenge, themed "Idle Hands". What do our boys get up to during their downtime? If you want to enter the challenge, check out the forum Fete des Mousquetaires. Always fun to have lots of entries. The competition will open on March 1 and close at midnight on March 31.

As always, this is just for fun. Thanks to my outstanding beta, Jen. Please feel free to review and comment as I simply adore reading your thoughts.

"You've got to be kidding! I was gone for less than thirty minutes. This simply couldn't all happen in that amount of time." D'Artagnan stood in shock, surveying the campsite around him, the bucket of water in his hand momentarily forgotten.

In that aristocratic manner that only he could pull off, even when he was at fault, Athos suggested, "You might want to pour that on Porthos' bedroll. I believe it is still smoldering."

As if to prove the point, a small wisp of smoke curled into the air, spurring the lad into action. Walking over, he dutifully emptied the bucket of water on the upper portion of the material that showed heavy scorch marks. It put the fire out and soaked the bedroll. The lad had serious doubts it would ever be fit to use again.

As Porthos came strolling into the campsite, his arms bulging with firewood, he saw D'Artagnan dousing his sleeping blankets with water. "You'd better have a very good reason for that whelp, because I can't think of one that doesn't have me pulverizing you."

The lad's guilty look quickly turned to one of indignation. "Athos should be the one you aim your temper, at not me. Apparently, in less than fifteen minutes, he caused this entire catastrophe."

The street fighter dropped his load of branches on the ground as he stared about him and the sheer destruction of their campsite registered in his brain. "Damn. We're lucky he didn't burn down the King's entire forest."

Athos, who was kneeling on the ground with his left arm cradled in his lap, raised an eyebrow at the duo. "You're blowing this all out of portion."

"Did you say a bomb went off in our campsite?" Aramis stated, as he ambled into the destroyed area and surveyed the damage. "There were bandits? A fight? And I missed it?"

After placing the five still squirming fish he was carrying on the ground, he straightened and put his hands on his blue sashed hips and his face grew pouty. "You know I hate it when you party without me. I really am the life of the party, you know."

"Oh you're something," Porthos quipped, which earned him a laugh from D'Artagnan and an even larger wounded buffalo looked from Aramis.

Athos remained kneeling on the ground plotting a way to extract himself from this catastrophe brought on by his ineptness. His fine strategic, military mind drew a blank on a logical path of retreat, so he went with his gut. Pushing to his feet, his drew his invisible Comte cloak tightly about him and as if he had an authoritative purpose known only to him and God, he strode away.

Perhaps in his smoke addled mind, Athos thought he appeared to be imagined himself to be the noble and haughty Comte de la Fére. However, in reality, his face was tinged with soot, the left side of his beard had been neatly singed away, as had some of the hair on that side of his head, his left arm was protectively cradled against his once white shirt, which was also showing considerable fire damage, and he limped. The only word to describe his current state of being was pathetic. Yet, he continued to try to pull off his charade, as he headed for where the horses had been staked out, gratefully far enough away to have been safe from the disaster.

Aramis prodded one of the blackened lumps in the dirt by his feet with the toe of his leather boot. "What in God's name is this?"

Porthos picked up a stick from the bundle he'd dropped near his feet, moved over and poked at the charred mass, skewering it enough to raise it off the ground into the air where they could examine it better.

Sighing, as he stared at the black lump, D'Artagnan announced, "That was dinner."

Aramis shook his head and smiled. "You are mistaken, my friend. I used my extreme talent to shoot us some incredibly plump and delectable rabbits for our repast." His eye roamed to the mangled mess hanging from the tip of the stick in Porthos' hand. "There is no way _that_ is one of _them_."

"Did you burn our bunnies, Athos?" Porthos glanced around and realized their fourth was walking away. "Hey! Where are you goin'?"

"Back to the garrison," Athos firmly pronounced, as he continued to limp towards the horses.

Quickly dropping the hairless hares on the forest floor, Porthos moved in front of the retreating Athos and placed his hand flat on the man's chest to arrest his progress. Athos threw a death glare at Porthos who had known the man for too many years to be frightened by it. "Knock it off," he growled and Athos dropped the death glare and settled for a mere scowl.

Moving over to where Athos was being held captive by the street fighter, Aramis ran a practiced eye up and down his older brother's frame. "Have an issue shaving this morning? The reason I ask is half your beard seems to be missing."

"Maybe it's some new trend. Athos is such a fashion horse," D'Artagnan suggested, with a laugh. Everyone else in the quartet found the comment humorous but Athos, who reinstated his death glare and shot it at his other brothers, who also ignored it.

Damn familiarity _,_ Athos thought, as his attempt to quell his brothers with his evil eye failed. They knew him too well, and as such, knew his love for them would forgive all.

Finally giving into the ludicrousness of the whole situation, Athos allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk. "I may have had a little trouble with the concept of cooking."

Clapping a hand on his brother's shoulder, Porthos gently spun him around and urged him back towards their ruined campsite. "You got a talent for understatement."

The four men let their eyes wander about what had, less than an hour ago, been an idyllic campsite. The stones that had marked out a round fire pit were scattered about the forest floor in disarray. Blackened pieces of debris, both organic and inorganic, were interspersed amongst the rocks. Porthos' bedroll was burnt and sopping wet.

Aramis' eyes fell upon a second bedroll, which appeared to have more holes than not down its entire length. "That's mine isn't it?" he sighed, dramatically. "And I had broken it in."

Athos winced, but not from the pain of burning his brother's words and it didn't go unnoticed by the medic of the group. "You're hurt," he declared with certainty as his eyes moved from what used to be his bedroll to the man who had destroyed it.

The expected response of 'I'm fine' was given, received and discarded as his brothers shook their heads and forced Athos to reveal his injuries.

"I may have burned my arm a little," the former Comte grudgingly admitted, as Aramis motioned for him to sit on a relatively unharmed section of grass in the grove.

"And you were limping," D'Artagnan helpfully pointed out as he randomly kicked at one of the stones that used to form the fire pit's perimeter.

"Tattletale," Athos intoned under his breath, which earned him a light slap on his leg from Aramis.

"Leave the pup alone. If you'd come clean yourself he wouldn't have to rat you out."

"Left leg."

Athos' 'will you please shut up'glare was purposely ignored by his protégé who added, "Ankle, I believe."

Porthos peered at the swordsman's dirty face and questioned, "Is that blood on his forehead?"

Before Athos could stop him, Aramis' fingers brushed back his unruly locks to display an abrasion by the hairline. "Does your head hurt?"

"My head always hurts when I'm around you three."

Aramis gave him an amused grin, as he let the hair fall back into place. Reaching out a hand, he gently patted the right side of Athos' face, which seemed to have sustained the least amount of damage. "We love you too, grumpy pants."

The eye roll he received in reply, said it all and made Aramis laugh even harder. "D'Artagnan, please go fetch a clean bucket of water since the last one was used to douse Porthos' bedroll."

"Laugh all you want, Aramis, but at least my bedroll will dry out. Yours is only fit for the trash," Porthos declared, as he held up the blanket that was full of holes. "Hope you like sleeping on the cold, hard, ground tonight."

Aramis glanced over at Athos, who had a rare sheepish expression on his face. "It died a noble death saving his Majesty's forest from being engulfed in flames. I'll buy you a new one, of course."

"Well as long as it was for a _noble_ cause. Damn right, you'll buy me a new bedroll and I know exactly which one. I have had my eye on a beauty, lined with the softest," his eyes strayed to the blackened bunnies, "fur to keep me warm on those cold winter night."

"I thought that is what you used women for," Porthos felt the need to interject.

"Not when we are on a mission. Then my only snuggling options are you three and..." he let his voice trail off meaningfully.

A groan escaped from Athos' lips, which had nothing to do with any of the multiple aches pulsing through his body.

"Porthos, my medical supplies. From my saddle bags if you please." Turning his attention back on his patient, he confided, "You are fortunate I _always_ carry my medic kit even on _pleasure_ trips such as this one."

"Fortunate," Athos grumbled sounding like it was anything but fortunate. "And there is nothing pleasurable about this stupid trip."

With a look of fake horror plastered on his face, Aramis clutched his chest. "The Captain's second in command, questioning his judgement. Sacrilegious."

Athos ducked his head again and muttered more unflattering things under his breath, as he ignored his brother's theatrical antics. Aramis thought, as he had in the past, that the former Comte had somewhere along the line been exposed to some less-than-noble nobles based on his gutter vocabulary. He had to give Athos credit for tying the curse words together in some very unique ways. Maybe that was the highly educated part of the equation.

Porthos returned first with Aramis' saddlebags and stood expectantly looking down at the marksman, who rose to survey the messy campsite before gesturing to one of the two remaining bedrolls that hadn't been struck by the catastrophe.

"Athos, if you'd kindly move over to there so I may examine your injuries in a somewhat cleaner setting." The marksman held out a hand to assist the man in rising, but Athos ignored the offer and struggled to his feet under his own steam, keeping his weight more on his right leg than left once he was vertical.

"So the whelp was right," Aramis commented, as he watched Athos hobble the few feet to the bedroll trying and miserably failing to hide his limp.

"I'm right?" D'Artagnan picked up the conversational thread, as he entered the grove with a fresh bucket water. "About what?"

"That our illustrious leader as injured his left ankle, as you declared earlier."

Three sets of eyes watched as Athos plopped, in a fashion that was unlike his usual grace, on the bedroll. The scowl was back, as well as a hint of annoyance in the expressive green eyes. "Treville's stupid idea," he softly muttered, before clearly proclaiming, "I want a drink."

"Later. After I'm finished. Then we will all fill our cups and you can regale us with the tale of what occurred here." Aramis began routing in his bags for the supplies he required.

Athos stared at the ground and his muttering began again. Aramis was pretty sure the pouting man was expounding on the absence of alcohol and questioning Aramis' parentage.

"I'm hungry," Porthos blurted out, and his stomach let out a grumble as if to validate his claim.

"We still have the fish Aramis caught. I'll fix them," D'Artagnan cheerfully volunteered.

Suddenly, all eyes tracked to the man muttering to the ground, who felt their prying eyes causing him to raise his head and glower back at them. "Don't worry. I wasn't going to offer," Athos sarcastically assured them. "As I recall, I didn't volunteer the first time, but rather was shanghaied all because of the Captain's stupid idea."

"Oi, you'd better check his head, Aramis. I think he just called Treville stupid," Porthos said, using a stage whisper, as if he was afraid the Captain was hiding behind a tree eavesdropping.

"And," Aramis added with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows, "this is the _second_ time our second in command has remarked he disapproves of Captain Treville's idea."

"I thought it was a good idea, might even be fun," D'Artagnan stated over his shoulder as, with Porthos assistance, he gathered the stones and reformed the fire pit. "That we could learn something from each other."

Grinning like a banshee, Porthos cheerfully trumpeted, "We did learn something. Athos really can't cook. It would appear the Comte de la Fére never learned the art of feeding himself."

"Which should have come as no surprise to you, gentlemen," Athos stated, as he tried to bat away Aramis' hand, which was vigorously scrubbing at the dirt on the tender skin of his face.

"Stop avoiding my hand," Aramis scolded as Athos ducked his head away. "I need to clean your face off to assess the damage." Before Athos could even open his mouth to retort, Aramis interjected, "Yes, I know. You're fine. Humor me, hmmm."

"The Captain's idea that we all learn a new skill that would assist us as musketeers, while we had some idle time, was a good idea," D'Artagnan stated sincerely, as he piled the wood in the pit and lit a new fire. "I was looking forward to improving myself."

"You got a lot of improve, whelp. Me, I'm a near finished project," Porthos cheerfully declared, as he added more wood to the fire.

"We should all strive to improve ourselves," Aramis loftily concurred with the boy, as he poured some alcohol on a clean swatch of cloth. "This is going to...well...you know...sting."

"Regrettably, I am quite familiar with the feeling and I still think it would be better to pour the alcohol in me, not on me," Athos asserted, wincing as the first dab of the spirit-infused cloth touched his abraded skin.

"Guess we will have to agree to disagree on that point." The medic generously soaked the rag again with way too much alcohol in Athos' opinion, before applying it to the battered man's forehead.

Porthos came over and sat on the bedroll to the left of Athos. He had nothing better to do at the moment since the camp was semi-straightened out and D'Artagnan had dinner under control. "Hey, do you know your beard is missing on this side?" he inquired as he studied the area in question.

Involuntarily, Athos fingers crept towards his face but were whacked aside by Aramis. "Keep your dirty fingers off your face. We are trying to avoid an infection, not invite one."

Sidling a glance at Porthos, Athos asked, "Bad?"

"At the rate you grow a beard? You'll be nice and fuzzy in a week. Had it been the pups, well that would be a whole other story."

"In Gascony, we don't believe in growing extreme facial hair like some other people," D'Artagnan defended his nearly hairless baby face. It was well known in the musketeers that the boy simply wasn't able to grow a full beard and was, at best, capable of only the ghost of a decent mustache.

"Captain's got a beard. He's from Gascony," Porthos felt the need to point out to the boy. "Just sayin'."

"Hmmm," Aramis agreed congenially, as he moved his attentions from Athos' face to his left forearm.

It had been a warm day and Athos had stripped off his leather doublet before attempting to make dinner. Had he been wearing his leathers, he would have been better protected from the flames. The medic didn't have to ask the musketeer to take off his shirt because the sleeve had been burned away exposing the red, blistered arm.

Cursing under his breath for not thinking of it sooner, he grabbed Athos by the unburned section of his upper arm and plunged the lower portion into the bucket, holding it in the cooling water. Aramis shook his head at his brother when he immediately tried to remove it from the bucket. Though peeved, Athos grudgingly gave in and kept the limb in the water, even after Aramis released his hold on it.

The medic sat back on his heels for a minute, lost in thought. "The Captain does keep his beard trimmed rather short. Maybe it is more than just for neatness' sake. Maybe he does it because he, like the pup, can't grow a luxurious beard." To illustrate his point, Aramis ran his hand over his finely formed beard, smoothed his mustache, and finally patted his wavy locks for emphasis in case anyone could possibly miss his meaning.

His brother's glanced at their youngest, pity in their eyes. "What?" D'Artagnan queried. "I have nice hair."

"Kind of straight."

'Kind of thin."

"Kind of scraggly."

"Kind of you'd better stop picking on me if any of you want to eat tonight. That is unless you want _him_ to have another go at it," the Gascon sulked, like a petulant child, as he made to rise to his feet.

That had the desired results that D'Artagnan had hoped for, refocusing all the attention back on Athos, who started frowning when he realized what his protégé had done.

"Touché," his mentor grudgingly complimented the lad.

A faint smile played about his face, as D'Artagnan gave a small head tilt of acknowledgment. "I learned from the best," and then it was Athos' turn to give a faint smile and a chin dip.

"If you two are done complimenting each other on your conversational prowess, why don't you put your skills to good use and tell us what happened here, Monsieur." Porthos leaned back and settled against Athos' saddle, which was behind him on the ground. "I like a good bedtime story."

"I need wine to tell this tale." Athos hopefully glanced at his brethren, but nobody seemed to be making any move to go get the bottle they all knew was in his saddlebags.

It was well known that Aramis carried medical supplies, Porthos carried extra food, he carried wine and D'Artagnan carried, well Athos didn't know what the boy carried and he made a mental note to find out.

"Wine with dinner. Not on an empty stomach especially when you are injured," Aramis chided, as he motioned for Porthos to assist in removing the swordsman's left boot.

Once the ankle was exposed, noticeable swelling was already occurring. The medic proceeded to poke and prod at it in a manner that Aramis swore was totally unnecessary to ascertain the damage. Athos told his brother in no uncertain terms that it was sprained, not broken, and to leave it alone.

Five hours later, or at least that was Athos' perception, Aramis stopped his infernal examination, rocked back on his heels, looked Athos straight in the eye, and declared, "It's sprained, not broken."

Only Porthos' quick intervention saved Aramis from gaining a few black and blue marks of his own, courtesy of Athos' fist.

"Uh-uh," Porthos scolded the swordsman, as he wrapped his muscular arm around Athos' chest and arms, pinning them to his sides. "And keep that left one in the bucket before you piss Aramis off," he commanded. "I don't wanna to be havin' to restrain both of you." When Athos seemed to settle down, Porthos released him. "Bettin' the Captain wouldn't believe all the troubles his idea is causing."

"When it comes to the three of you," Athos drawled with superiority, "I think Captain Treville has a very good idea exactly how much trouble you can get into."

"Oh, and you _never_ get into trouble." Porthos reached over, poked Athos in the ribs, and caused two of his other three friends to yelp, one with indignation, and the other with pain.

"Porthos," Aramis scolded the big man. "We are trying to heal him not hurt him further."

Athos' was grimacing, he had his right arm protectively wrapped around his middle, and he was using colorful language once more under his breath.

The complete look of innocence on Porthos' handsome face didn't fool anyone. "I was only pointing out another injury he obviously forgot to mention. I helped him remember, I did."

D'Artagnan wandered over to see what had transpired and he gave his mentor a disappointed look followed by a disenchanted sigh. "I believe it was you who lectured me on the importance of taking care of ones injuries so as not to endanger the lives of those around you."

Athos' attempt to draw himself into a somewhat straighter and sterner posture was rather spoiled when he couldn't suppress a moan from sneaking out. As he hunched back over again, he unhappily retorted, "That was when we were on duty. Protecting King and Country, which, I might point out, we are not doing at the moment."

"No. We are on 'vacation'," the boy replied making air quotes with his fingers.

"Shouldn't you be tending to dinner," Athos griped as he looked around the boy to the tidy campfire where the fish were grilling nicely over the open flames. There were no out of control flames or charred food anywhere to been seen.

Well that wasn't entirely true. The cremated remains of the rabbits had been kicked over by a tree trunk and Athos pondered if they should be given a proper burial considering what he had been done to them in the name of cooking.

"I don't see why it was important that I learn to cook," Athos groused, as he turned his eyes away from the wretched rabbits. ''Aramis is a worse cook than I." However, the overwhelming, simultaneous headshakes of his brothers said they clearly disagreed.

"I may not be particularly skilled," Aramis said, as he draped a wet cloth over Athos' puffy ankle, "but you are a culinary disaster as you have, once again, proven. Though this time, I might add," he stated, as he let his eyes sweep the burned ground on the grove, "you have truly out done yourself."

"Duly noted," Athos drily validated the comment. "In my defense, however, I did inform you this was a bad idea."

Over by the fire, D'Artagnan snorted. "Yes you did. Loudly and insistently and next time I, for one, will heed your words. What you did to those rabbits is...," the lad pointed towards the carcasses.

"Cruel? Inhumane? Barbaric? Monstrous?"

As Aramis drew a breath to continue, Porthos cut in. "A waste of good food is what it is. Do you know how many hungry people there are out there?" he waved his hand at the forest.

"In the King's forest? Why are there hungry people in the King's forest? I didn't think the King allowed anyone in his forest, except his Royal self, his huntsmen, us, of course, and I suppose a stray poacher or two."

"Are you done?" Porthos asked his annoying best buddy.

"Yes. I believe so."

"I meant hungry people in the world. Paris. The Court of Miracles. People, children, bitty babies who die for lack of food." The gentle giant's voice grew soft and sad. "Begging for scraps that the nobles throw out for their dogs." Glancing at their resident Comte, he quickly added, "No offense," and Athos' small head dip showed none was taken.

Athos had never known hunger growing up, except when it was used as a punishment by his parents or governess. Even then, a kind servant usually smuggled him a piece of bread with cheese to tide him over. His life as a child was so different from what Porthos must have endured.

"I think," D'Artagnan began, trying to move past the melancholy that threatened to engulf them, "Captain Treville's point was that we all have hidden talents and we could benefit from learning new skills, from each other, while we had some free time."

"Athos should be teachin' us sword fighting, Aramis shootin' and me hand-to-hand."

"But we already tutor each other in those areas. The Captain was looking for us to broaden our horizons. Since I'm a rather good chef, if I could teach you all to cook, then when you are on a mission without me, you could eat a decent meal. What did you three do for meals on the road before I came along?"

"Inns."

"Taverns."

"Farmers."

"Didn't let him cook," Porthos quipped, earning him a ' _gee that's real nice'_ look from Athos.

"It's not that we can't cook," Aramis stated then amended, "well, excluding Athos. Porthos and I can make something that is mostly edible. But you are so much better at it than we are and it is such a pleasure to eat a meal you have prepared. We simply have become selfish and rely on you to provide us culinary delights."

"And that would be the skill Aramis is going to tutor us in. Bullshitting people," Athos sardonically drawled as he glanced over at the marksman, a sarcastic smile playing in the corners of his mouth.

"The term, my dear Comte, you are searching for is flattery. The art of making people feel good about themselves. Another area in which you are sadly lacking for such an educated man."

As a precaution, Porthos laid a hand on Athos' shoulder and minutely shook his head.

They took a break from razzing each other as D'Artagnan focused on the final dinner preparations and the other two stripped Athos of his shirt so Aramis could examine his ribs. Bruised, not broken was the diagnosis.

As the sleeve was burnt off Athos' shirt and it was sporting a dozen or so other holes where embers must have fallen on it, Aramis declared it a total loss. He sent Porthos to search Athos' saddlebags for a new one knowing the Comte usually carried a spare.

Shirt replaced, ankle wrapped, arm bandaged as well as the palm of the hand, another injury that slipped Athos' mind, and they were finally ready to devour the tasty meal the whelp had produced. As always, they complimented the chef who beamed with delight.

After dinner, Athos was relegated to his bedroll, as the other three musketeers prepared the camp for the night. When all was done, D'Artagnan settled next to the injured man and Porthos and Aramis hunkered down on the only other intact bedroll. The other two bedrolls, having been declared as beyond repair, had been fed to the fire. Porthos dug the bottle of wine out of Athos' pack, checked the label, and grunted with approval before passing it around for all to imbibe.

After the wine had made a few rounds, Porthos caught Athos yawning. "Oh no, Athos. Before you fall asleep you owe us the story of what happened here."

Aramis snuggled a bit deeper on the bedroll. "Yes. A bedtime story. To help the pup fall asleep."

"Lose the pup. And I don't need help falling asleep thank you very much. But I confess I am curious how you could cause this much chaos cooking a brace of bunnies." D'Artagnan turned his head to look at Athos, who took a long swig from the bottle before passing it on.

Running his good hand through his singed hair, he sighed deeply. "I suppose it was a series of missteps."

"Almost burning down the King's forest ain't a misstep," Porthos countered, but Aramis shushed him.

"Let the Comte spin his tale, please."

"Lose the Comte, Lothario," Athos dangerously insinuated, causing Aramis to swallow painfully in acknowledgement of the accurate barb.

"If he's the Pup, you're the Comte, and he's Lothario, what am I?" Porthos asked suspiciously, as his brown eyes raked each one of them in turn.

Aramis placed a hand on Porthos' leg. "I'll tell you. Later. In private. What _they_ call you," he whispered, as if in confidence.

The other two musketeers rolled their eyes knowing this wasn't going to end well... for them.

"You were saying." D'Artagnan verbally nudged his mentor back on track. "What happened?"

Motioning for the bottle again, Athos nearly drained it dry before Porthos pulled it away from him. "Talk."

"I suppose my upbringing neglected a few of the basic skills that are required for cooking. The first seems my inability to properly skin small game, especially rabbits."

Suddenly, Porthos began to laugh so hard that tears ran down his face. "That is so true. First mission we went on, before Athos here was even an official musketeer, I left him to make dinner one night. Two rabbits. He hacked them bunnies up so bad trying to skin them there wasn't even a decent piece of fur left to wipe your ass with."

Being rather fair skinned, when Athos blushed, it was fairly easy to detect. Luckily, for him, it was a rarity for the telltale flush to color his skin. However, the reddish hue on his neck and face tonight was not a result of the fire.

"How could I have forgotten that incident?" Porthos berated himself before his mood suddenly darkened. Looking over at Athos, he saw the man's green eyes grow hooded, hiding the pain the memory of that ill-fated trip was causing him. "Yeah. That's how."

Athos dipped his chin in agreement. Some dogs were best left lying.

When D'Artagnan appeared to be making ready to ask what happened on the trip, Aramis quickly stepped in to head the lad off. Aramis was aware of the journey that Porthos and Athos shared and over the years had seen scars and nightmares it had left on their souls. He wasn't anxious to have it dug up tonight.

"So you were faced _tonight_ with skinning the beautifully plump bunnies that I shot for our dinner..." he encouraged, trying to get Athos to focus on the present and not lose himself in the past.

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed. He wasn't stupid and could see what Aramis was trying to do so he reached over and gently laid a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Dinner. Tonight."

Athos shook out of his reverie, locking those horrible memories back behind the stone walls that normally contained them. "I was having difficulty skinning the rabbits. When we hunted at home, someone else always prepared any game that was shot."

Curious, D'Artagnan inquired. "So when you are alone, you don't ever roast small game for dinner?"

"I do. Sort of. But if it is just for me, I don't mind eating around the less savory parts." He shrugged awkwardly. "My skills have gotten better over the years."

"Hard to believe that a man as talented with a knife as you are, can't skin an animal," Aramis noted with a touch of amusement.

"My talent with a knife, leans in other directions," Athos modestly replied, and his brothers had to agree. More than once, his ability to take the wings off a fly with his throwing skills had saved their hides.

"So, after I had the rabbits skinned, after a fashion..."

"It was painful to watch," D'Artagnan confessed to Porthos and Aramis who'd hadn't witnessed the event as they had been off tending the horses.

"...I proceeded to build a spit with sturdy branches as D'Artagnan instructed."

"Guessin' his instructions left something out," Porthos commented, grinning at Aramis.

"The boy is not totally to blame," Athos declared, though D'Artagnan wasn't sure he liked the implication that somehow this mess was partially his fault.

"Believing I had dinner well in hand, D'Artagnan went off to fetch some water and herbs to enhance the meal."

Aramis sighed in remembrance. "Fresh herbs do add a nice touch. My mother had an herb garden outside the kitchen. It was at her knee I learned about their culinary, medicinal, and romantic properties."

"What do herbs have to do with romance?" Porthos questioned his friend, who had gone all misty eyed.

"Oh, not herbs I suppose. But flowers. A fragrant pink rose for a maiden. A white lily for the Madame. A touch of lavender on the pillow."

"A carpet of blue forget-me-nots," Athos bitterly muttered under his breath.

D'Artagnan yanked them all back on track again. "When I headed for the stream," he dropped the controversial herb part, "you had the rabbits on the spit and were giving them a gentle turn every now and then. What happened?"

"I was bored, as it didn't take much concentration to spin a stick once and awhile. So I thought I'd make good use of my time and clean my pistol while I waited for the rabbit to cook."

Porthos slapped a hand to his forehead and swore. " Didn't you learn anything last time, Athos?" he accused his brother.

"I thought I was being more...careful...this time." He gave an apologetic shrug. "It would seem I was...mistaken. I neglected to see that I had spilt a pile of gunpowder on the ground near the fire. An ill-timed wind shift sent an ember in the direction of the pile and well..." he grimaced, as he remembered how quickly the pile of gunpowder had ignited and how hotly it burned.

"It would seem," he continued, "unbeknownst to me, the cap on my powder flask was loose, and apparently I had left small trails of gunpowder about the campsite. The isolated pile suddenly grew tentacles spreading about the grove. My first reaction was to douse it with the water in the pot by the side of the fire, which was heating."

"Except, there was no water in the pot yet, because I had gone to get some with the bucket." D'Artagnan glanced over at the vessel that Athos had been soaking his burns in earlier.

"Yes, I recalled that detail a bit too late."

"Meaning," Aramis theorized, "you grabbed the metal handle on the pot by the fire, barehanded, and..."

"...upon discovering it was uncomfortably warm..."

"...burning hot..."

"...I immediately let go of it, flinging it on to Porthos' bedroll..."

"...history repeats itself," Porthos moaned dropping his head into his hands.

"And it singed the bedroll."

No one bothered to point out that it did a lot more than simply singe the bedroll. The proper term was burnt the hell out of it.

"So that explains how you burnt your hand and Porthos' bedroll. Do continue," the medic prompted sweetly.

"By now, the grass was beginning to smolder and I had visions of our poor Captain explaining to the King how his elite guard of Musketeers burned down the Royal Forest while off-duty."

In the spirit of ' _all for one'_ , again, no one bothered to correct the fact that it was a single musketeer, not the entire regiment that almost set the woods on fire.

"Thinking to beat out the flames, I grabbed the nearest item, which happened to be Aramis' bedroll and began smothering the flames."

"Ya think," Porthos glanced over at Aramis, "we would have heard what was going on."

"I believe during this particular portion of the story, you had taken the horses to the stream to drink their fill," Athos suggested, which made sense to the others.

"Continue," Porthos waved him on.

"It got rather smoky for a few minutes. Visibility was poor. In my haste to save the trees..."

As if it was a game, Aramis excitedly injected what he thought happened next. "You tripped over the fire pit and scattered the hot rocks around the campsite."

"...and twisted my ankle," Athos acknowledged with an elegant dip of his head. "Hobbling about, I renewed my efforts to beat out the fire trails in the grass and was successful. That only left the rather untidy fire pit to deal with..."

"And our dinner," Porthos reminded him.

"And our ruined dinner. The gunpowder had caused the flames to...increase...and cook..."

"...burn..."

"...the rabbits at a more rapid pace."

Porthos made a sad face. "Poor bunnies."

With indignation written all over his scorched countenance, Athos firmly stated, "The rabbits were long dead before any of these events occurred. Their life ceased the minute _Aramis_ ," he pointedly glared at the marksman, "shot them. If you have a problem with animal cruelty, take it up with him."

"I'm very humane when I hunt. My prey didn't suffer at all and they gave their lives for a greater cause." As all eyes focused on him, he grew a tad restless. "Unless you are all planning to forgo meat, shut up and let Athos continue."

"I suppose I wasn't thinking too clearly, perhaps because of the smoke I must have inhaled," he gave a weak cough for effect, and stared pleadingly at the wine bottle, which Aramis made no move to relinquish. "And I attempted to rescue the fricasseed rabbits from where they had fallen in the flames. I didn't notice my sleeve had apparently caught on fire and when I brushed the hair from my eyes..."

"So went the beard on your left side of your face." Aramis seemed to take great delight in finishing Athos' sentences.

"Yes, but I'm not sure it wasn't already burnt earlier. Anyway, I put out the last of the flames from our cooking fire and had pulled the rabbits..."

"Decimated carcasses..."

"...from the ashes when D'Artagnan returned. End of the story." Athos leaned backwards against his saddle. "Can I have the wine now, please?"

Aramis held the bottle up and shook it. "Empty, I'm afraid."

Wearily closing his eyes, he sighed. "Story of my life."

The crackle of the new fire was the only sound in the night for a few minutes before Aramis, who had been adding up the injuries caused by this accident in his head, came up one short. "Wait. You didn't explain the ribs. Hair, face, ankle, hand, and arm, but not ribs."

"Probably when he fell over and twisted his ankle. Hit something on the ground. Sword hilt," Porthos suggested, as he let loose a mighty yawn.

"No, because I distinctly remember he took off his weapons belt and laid it on his bedroll before we began to make dinner. He didn't want to be weaponless, but I assured him there would be no danger involved in making dinner. Apparently," D'Artagnan conceded with chagrin, "I was mistaken."

"The ribs?" Aramis prodded Athos again, who still had his eyes shut.

"Last week. At the tavern. The minor altercation."

"You mean the one where the three of us had to save your sorry ass because for some reason you decided to pick a fight with the five biggest, baddest, Red Guards in the place."

"I knew you'd have my back," Athos solemnly stated, as he opened his eyes and smirked at Aramis.

"You are right, my brother. Always. Though a little advanced warning next time might be nice. I was enjoying the attentions of the lovely barmaid..."

"And I had a winning streak at cards. Was cleaning up the floor with those sods."

D'Artagnan felt his face flush, as they all looked at him. "Fine. Alright. I was just moping in the corner over Constance going back to her husband."

"It's alright, pup. Loves hurts sometimes. Unless you're Aramis, then it hurts all the time 'cause he makes such poor choices in women."

"I can't help that they all throw themselves at my feet. I have no willpower to resist," the romantic said dreamily, as he stared off into space.

Porthos made a very rude noise before he continued. "Constance is just a little confused at the moment. She'll come to her senses soon enough and leave that sap."

Athos quietly closed his eyes and was trying to will himself asleep. But Aramis, like a bloodhound, was still on the trail of an answer. "The ribs?"

Athos sighed, "When we left the tavern."

"You mean when the owner kindly asked us to take our disagreement outside or he'd call the guards," Aramis corrected Athos' recollection.

"Which was pretty stupid when you think about it because the Red Guards and the Musketeers were already there and the ones fighting. Who was left to call?" D'Artagnan glanced around at his brothers.

"Treville." Athos' monotone reply had them all grow quiet.

"That wouldn't have been good," Porthos rumbled gravely.

"No it would not have been. What did the Captain threaten after the last time he caught us fighting with the Red Guard?"

Porthos shook his head and made a shushing sound. "Not in front of the pup, Aramis. Ain't fit for his tender ears."

D'Artagnan's annoyance was easily detected in his voice. "Hello. I was there when the Captain threatened you three with gross insubordination and somehow, even though I wasn't in any way involved, it spilled over onto me."

"Guilt by association," Aramis explained in a solemn manner.

"All for one and one for all," Porthos stated a bit too cheerfully.

"Yeah, well next time keep me out of it. As I recall, even though I was totally innocent I was mucking stalls right alongside the three of you."

Porthos leaned forward and ruffled the boy's hair. "And we won't forget it, whelp."

"I wished you'd forget whelp and pup," the Gascon good-naturedly groused.

"Not gonna happen." Porthos settled back on his bedroll and grinned at Aramis. "Way too much fun."

"Athos?"

"Hmmmmm," he rather sleepily replied to Aramis' inquiry.

"The ribs?"

"Oh. Yes. So when that lout of a Red Guard picked me up..."

"Ooow. The one who was big as me? Mean? I enjoyed knockin' him down a peg or two," Porthos fondly reminisced, as he absentmindedly cracked his knuckles.

"Well before you knocked him out, if you recall, he picked me up and flung me at a stone wall. A hard, stone wall," he repeated, as if there were some other kind.

Aramis looked thoughtful. "The one you fell behind. We had a deuce of a time finding you at first, after the fight was over. Thought you must have abandoned us.'

"I...would...never...do...that."

Aramis was immediately contrite. "No, I didn't mean to imply that," and the tight smile he got let him know all was forgiven. "So you hurt your ribs when you fell off the wall."

"I hurt my ribs when he threw me into the wall the first time. Then he graciously picked me up, as I was having some difficulties standing, and kindly deposited me on the other side of the wall. I don't believe that fall actually injured anything, but my pride perhaps. It wasn't my best showing in a fight."

"Should I point out here you, once again, didn't inform us of your injury and therefore violated your own rule?" D'Artagnan gave his mentor a meaningful glance, thinking he had won this round.

"Were we on a mission?"

"No," the boy answered slowly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"And did we subsequently go on a mission?"

"No," he reluctantly concurred and before Athos could skewer him, he jumped on the spear tip of his own violation. "And hence the corollary to the rule takes effect and you were indeed under no obligation to tell us you were injured."

A smug smile appeared on Athos' face and he began to close his eyes in satisfaction.

"However, we are your brothers, and don't you think we deserve to know when you are injured, even if not in the line of duty, so we can care for you? You know we love you."

The innocence and sincerity of the boy's words pierced the iron walls Athos had formed around his heart. Forcing his tired eyes to open, he slowly focused them on each of his brothers in turn, seeing the love in the three sets of brown orbs that gazed fondly at him in return. Swallowing thickly, he bowed his head for a moment. "You are indeed correct. I was wrong. Forgive me."

"Think nothing of it," Aramis breezily said, as he reached over and patted Athos on the knee. "Some of us just take longer to learn new things, than others. However, I think D'Artagnan would be wise to admit defeat in trying to teach you any culinary skills. It, frankly, would be safer for all of us."

"At least I tried. You all made a promise to Captain Treville too. What are you going to teach us, Aramis?" D'Artagnan inquired of his brother.

"Well that's easy, pup," Aramis confidently replied. The fine art of..."

The End

Or maybe To Be Continued at a later date. After all the boys did make a promise to share their 'other' skills and talents with their brethren in their idle times.


End file.
